One-Brunch Stand

One always has high hopes when one finds a new restaurant. We do, don't we? I had that feeling when I first walked into Orange in Roscoe Village for brunch.

However, the feeling quickly dissipated when I found that the restaurant is not equipped to seat any party larger than four and we had to wait like 30 to 45 minutes to get seated. I don't know about you, but brunch is not a meal where people like to wait to get seated: they're hung-over, they're starving, they've just got out of bed with a complete stranger. Plus, the hostess told us with her snooty attitude that she won't seat us unless everybody was there, which is understandable, but fuck, brunch is a group thing and gays are almost always running on gay time.

If you're a gay couple, a group of six or more is practically de rigeur. We almost never go out to the bars anymore, so brunch is the only way we get to see our friends. By the time our group of six was ready to be seated, our friendship was hanging by a thread.

The food was supposed to be interesting but poorly executed. If I were a judge on Top Chef, I would say that the flavors weren't balanced and overwhelming in some cases. Sure, a Chai Latte sauce sounds good, but drowning your pancakes in it isn't too appetizing. I love duck as much as the next guy, but duck sausage for breakfast is a bit much. Nothing is simple, everything is exhaustingly complicated. I think it's a case of the menu being in love with itself more than anything else.

Also, on the menu it said something to the effect of "if you're looking to build-your-own-omelette, you should go to somewhere that has 'golden' or 'nugget' in its name." Haughty much? Trust me, I've been to the Golden Nugget many times and their service, attitude and my omelette was better than Orange's Omelette #4. What's that? Omelette #4? I looked for #1 to #3 but apparently the chef is a math retard and doesn't know how to count as it was missing from the menu. I know, I know, there is no Chanel No. 1 to 4 either, but this is brunch, not a perfume campaign ad.

I know that I'm just a stupid blogger, and I don't usually write restaurant rants in my blog--after all, I'm a crazed food-schizo, but as we were leaving, my friend Annie said to me, "I'm saying goodbye to this place because it's the last time I'm coming here." The rest of us agreed, which is really unusual, because we all came to this conclusion separately. So, I guess this is it, this is a one-brunch stand.

I feel dirty. Dirtier than Paris Hilton with a hamburger in her mouth.

I think that I will just stick where I know I will get a great brunch: Kitsch'n which is literally right next door with its friendly atmosphere and fun food, run by my chef-crush Jon Young, who is always down-to-earth and approachable. Plus, they will make your omelette just the way you like it. Word.

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How Does It Work? - A brunch conversation about those mysterious artifacts called 'tampons.'

Finders Keepers - A near brunch catfight averted.

Food Freak-out

Because I'm fucked up, a complete food schizo, with my various food phobias and aversions, I'm literally a nightmare to have dinner with. You would hate to have me as a dinner guest. And much as I try not to get freaked out, the slightest thing would set me off.

This is why I am usually very careful with my food choices. I usually stay away from exotic recipes, unfamiliar ingredients or anything that looks like it could have a creamy base or dairy. I am a creature of habit by need. I eat the same kinds of things all the time and the only way I come upon new cuisine is by grilling the waiter to the nth degree or by stealing morsels from another person's plate. Even then, I am always wary and will order my food explicitly with no cheese or such. This way, I minimize the food tantrums and trips to crazyville.

But inevitably, there are food freak-outs.

In my last food freak-out, I was at Tapas Barcelona, located in Evanston. Spanish food is something I enjoy a lot, particularly because I am very familiar with its cuisine and can predict what dishes I will enjoy and which ones to avoid. This made my last freak-out even more tragic, because it could've been avoided with such ease.

The great thing about tapas is that if you don't like something, it's ok, there's always the next dish. But for me, going to a tapas restaurant gets me going because in my mind, it's like coming home. And coming home isn't complete without an order of paella, a delicious rice dish cooked with saffron, seafood and chicken or chorizo. It takes at least twenty minutes to make, so servers usually warn you about it. In my opinion, it's worth the wait, I love it.

So here I am getting sloshed on sangria, nibbling off the dishes that the others have ordered, saving my appetite for my special dish. When the waiter finally arrived, carrying the large flat iron pan over his shoulder in one hand, my mouth watered like you wouldn't believe. A drop of saliva actually dripped out of my mouth, I kid you not. If somebody invented the pharmaceutical version of paella, menopausal women around the world would make that person the president. Hell, if Clinton became president, she would abdicate for this person.

However, when the waiter set the pan in front of me, I was shocked. In my mind, there was a collective gasp! around the table. But later, I was told it was just me.

The paella was covered with cheese. Now, who the fuck would put cheese in paella? You cannot, cannot put cheese on paella and still call it paella. Ok, I'm tired of italicizing the word paella, so from now on I won't, even though it looks more exotic when I italicize it. Just continue imagining that it is italicized.

I mean, this is like putting pepperoni and mozzarella on a tortilla and calling it a pizza. Plus, nowhere in the menu did the description say that there was cheese in the dish. I think that if you were going to fuck with the traditional paella recipe, you should say so. People expect that there is no turkey in their lasagna, no pineapple in their chili con carne, no crabs in their one night stands. Right?

My dinner was ruined. I picked around the dish the best I could, but it was over. Until we got the check, I couldn't stop complaining about it. My friends commiserated for awhile before finally getting tired of my tirade. It's just food you know. Whatever.

I don't like myself when this happens, but you know, I can't help it. I wish I was the type of person who could take these unexpected events with poise, but I'm not, you know, I'm not.

Writing this post really got me going again. I was planning to just write a couple of sentences about this but the length of this post really shows you how upset I was and what a total freak I am.

Now, would you still want to go to dinner with me?

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Burnt Lunch - A food mishap.

Gay Food Porn

PREVIOUSLY: The Tipping Point

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On the bustling streets of Soho, the restaurants beckon you, tempting you, flashing their fare with displays in their windows, menus of their exotic specialties, and signs calling out their two-for-one deals: hey you, and your buddy, together--!

Like a sailor on shore leave, we were eager to sample what the city had to offer. No limits, save what our (designer) purses can bear.


Balan’s Café on Old Compton had a good deal on a great English breakfast: eggs, rashers, sausage, grilled tomáto, toast, sauté mushrooms and potatoes, nicely presented, all for £5.25. Watch out for their gregarious and friendly waiter, only known with the mysterious moniker “Babe.”

Just a few steps away, The Stock Pot, had a set English breakfast for £4.50. The set consisted of one fried egg, sausage, rashers, toast and baked beans. Coffee or tea is included. Serviceable, but nothing to blog home about, but a good alternative when you’re low on cash after binge-drinking. By the way, ‘rashers’ are not some sort of VD, but a sort of thick-cut bacon, more ham than bacon really.

We had some of the best Indian food ever at Punjab Restaurant on 80 Neal Street. Punjab specializes in north Indian cuisine, which is rare in Chicago so we had to try it while we were here in London. We started with Punjabi Samosa, which is a fried, crisp pastry filled with spicy potatoes. For my entrée, I had the Chicken Madras, a hot and spicy tomato based curry. Brian had the delicious Chicken Jalfrezi, with pieces of chicken cooked in ginger, tomatoes, onions, green pepper and other spices.

Our other Indian experience at the Palms of Goa on 4 Meard Street, wasn’t as exciting. The restaurant served south Indian food and boasted Goan specialties. We were eager to try this new Indian cuisine from Goa. For our starter, we ordered the Batata Wada, a bland variation of the familiar samosa: mashed potatoes, green chili and green peas fried in a gram flour batter. I ordered the Pork Mas, a Goan specialty of diced pork, cooked with vinegar, ginger and garlic and spices. I was pretty excited about it because I had never seen pork in an Indian restaurant before, but it turned out bland and the pork tough. Brian had the Chicken Tikka Tandoori, served on a sizzling plate. Tandoori is a style of cooking that involves barbecuing in a clay oven. This Goan variation seemed more lemony than similar dishes I’ve had and was pretty good.

We also had a chance to go to a couple of Indonesian/Malaysian restaurants, which is also pretty rare in Chicago. Indonesian and Malaysian food are the most similar to the type of food that I grew up with in the Philippines, due to its proximity. I was very excited to find these. I could hardly keep my knees together, I was about to come with excitement.

Melati on 30-31 Peter Street was the better of the two. We tried the Mee Goreng Istimewa, which is fried noodles with squid, beef and prawn, served with a fried egg on top and two skewers of satay covered in peanut sauce. Awesome! Brian had the tasty Ayam Rendang, which is chicken cooked in a hot spicy coconut gravy with lemon grass. The other restaurant was Bali Bali on 150 Shaftesbury Avenue. We started with the Udang Goreng Tepung, which is delicious prawn fritters served with chili sauce. I ordered the Nasi Goreng Special which fried rice with eggs, shredded chicken, king prawns, vegetables and chili which I enjoyed. Brian ordered the Semur Daging, which is beef slices cooked in Indonesian soy sauce. Brian loved it, but I thought it was a tad too sweet.

We had to try some English food so we stopped at this pub called Old Shades on Whitehall just south of Trafalgar Square. I had the fish and chips, which was beer battered fish and french fries. However, under the batter, the fish still had the skin on. I wasn’t sure whether this was a British thing or not, but it made me sorta gag, like a vagina. Brian had better luck with his sausage and mash.

Viet Noodle Bar on Greek Street had decent Pho Tai, a traditional Vietnamese beef noodle soup with fresh greens and are you still even reading this b.s. or did you just skip to the end of the post. I thought so.

Then, there was this encounter with an enormous sausage, a twelve-incher on Charing Cross--after a night of heavy drinking at G-A-Y club. I was lured by the smell of sizzling meat. The smell led me to a street vendor grilling pale sausages, already turning a nice caramel brown; grilled sweet onions waited in a corner to be used as condiments. My mouth watered at the thought of that sausage at the back of my throat. With the munchies clouding my judgment, £3 had seemed reasonable. But I was quickly disappointed. The meat was tasteless, the skin was dry, and the bun, cold and doughy. It reminded me of my ex-boyfriend, but that's another story.

Finally, there’s Caffé Nero, a coffee shop, the one on Frith and Old Compton, smack in Bent Central is a good spot to boy-watch and while away some time, where I wrote this post. But beware of the back of the shop, where the acrid smell of piss wafts up whenever somebody leaves the loo, which is located downstairs.

Unless, of course, you’re into that sort of shit.


There were several other places we went to, but I started feeling stupid taking notes on all of them. I felt like I was blogging about my vacation instead of taking it. The short of it is that Soho had a lot of great food, all within a short distance from the two hotels we stayed in. Gays, you should definitely stay in this area.

NEXT: Slideshow

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MapEasy's Guide Map to London was essential to our trip! It gives you a bird's eye view of a city and makes it easy to figure out what places to go. It shows detail maps for Covent Garden/Soho, Greater London, Out-of-Town, and Underground. It is a location map and guidebook in one. Each hand-drawn Guidemap contains useful facts on hotels and restaurants, as well as information regarding shops, museums, and attractions. Plus, the map is made of a waterproof, tear resistant material. Check it out!

Leftovers

On any given day, you could look into my refrigerator and find a whole slew of leftovers. Like today for instance, there’s egg foo yung and chicken fried rice from the local Ms. Egg Roll #2; spaghetti with marinara sauce that I made a couple of nights ago; a half-eaten chicken leg.

There was also a single piece of futomaki, which I took home from Nohana. The waitress looked at me strangely when I requested to take that futomaki home, but nevertheless put the piece into a huge styrofoam take-home box. It was maybe twenty times the size of the futomaki.

Inside of me, a war waged between feelings of waste from the excess packaging for my single piece of sushi and the knowledge that the same single piece could feed a starving family in Ethiopia or both the Olsen twins for a week. It was worth it; I resolved to re-use the styrofoam packaging somehow. Maybe if I collect enough of them, I could use it to make some kind of Christmas ornament that I could give friends that I no longer want to hang out with.

But I will say this: I will take home food from a restaurant no matter how small the morsel.

This is probably because I inherited my sense of frugality from my father; who believed that nothing should be wasted; that every cent should be considered. Thus, I can never throw anything away. And sometimes, when I walk past a dumpster, I have an urge to look in there and see if there's something I can rescue: an old lamp, second-hand romance novels, some newly married guy’s discarded porn collection.

I also believe that my fridge has magickal qualities in that anything I put in there can last through the next Ice Age--which I hear is currently in production at DreamWorks. Barring an unforeseen power outage, my leftovers are safe. I put my faith in this the way a televangelist puts his faith in the almighty dollar.

Unfortunately, my boyfriend is one of those people who refuses to eat leftovers because he doesn't believe in it, which makes me have to be sneaky.

Easy enough, I suppose, if you take the leftovers and make it into an omelet, a frittata or a casserole. Sometimes a dish could be separated into parts, and the parts stir-fried in with vegetables, noodles or rice. I'm sure each of you have your own recycling techniques. If I knew how to make futomaki, believe me, the leftover halibut would find itself cut up and folded into a roll.

When I eat leftovers, I know I am my father's son. It takes me back to the days when he would cook dinner, in huge vats. Whatever it was, we would chow down, stuff ourselves and eat it with relish. It's strange I know, but relish goes with everything, not just hotdogs. Usually, there would still be enough for a couple more days. I don't know if Dad cooked because he wanted to show off his culinary skill or because he just loved cooking for us.

I'd like to believe that it was the latter.

I know that as I sit down to eat my single futomaki, my cold egg foo yung, my half-eaten chicken leg, my father is also eating something from his fridge, maybe a lone, orphaned meatball, or something leftover from another meal, another time.

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Shame - My father told me not to embarrass my ancestors. Yes, my dead ancestors. They Found Nemo! - Finally.

My First Beer - My father told me that this was the only way I could grow hair on my chest. Rock Bottom - When you've fished food out of the trash, then you know you've hit rock bottom.

My First Beer

The first time I had beer, I was seven years old.

My dad was sitting on the couch slamming down a few cold ones, watching some wrestling show. He was yelling and screaming at the TV screen. And even though it was not directed at me, it scared me a little.

I was sitting there in the corner, trying to make myself as small as possible, trying not to be noticed, because as soon as I got small enough, I was going to sneak into my little sister's Barbie Dream House and have some tea with Ken and G.I. Joe.

In the back of my mind, I knew that this was really ridiculous, but damn it, Ken and G.I. Joe were sooo hot! If I had dance music, some drugs and I took off Ken and G.I. Joe's shirts, it could totally be a Tea Dance. I even knew where I could score the drugs: the Flintstones vitamins on the dining room table.

During the commercial break, my dad noticed me and almost as if he read my mind about shirtless Ken and shirtless G.I. Joe, he decides that this was going to be a Teaching Moment. He was going to teach his gay son to be a man. And by God, it wasn't by teaching him not to ask for directions when he's lost.

He grabs his beer and shoves it under my nose and tells me to take a swig.

"Come on," he said. "It'll grow hair on your chest."

I hesitated. On one hand, I thought hairy chests were sexy, and on the other, it'll be a bitch to shave off for my cabaret act. Nobody wants a hairy-chested Liza Minelli!

(It was only later in 2002, that I learned that I was wrong, there was someone--David Gest. Mr. Gest probably would prefer Liza to have a hairy chest, and probably a penis too.).

The dark, wheaty smell made me wrinkle my nose. Warily, I took a sip.

Bhlaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

It was horrible! It tasted like piss, but without a salt lick and a lime wedge to bite on afterwards.

My dad laughed his ass off.

My mom heard the commotion. She came in and yelled at my dad, turned to me and said, "Let this be a lesson to you. Beer is for grown-ups. Don't drink it!"

I nodded to my mom. I had learned my lesson.

I'm sticking to gin.

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Walk Like A Man - My father tried, really really tried to teach me, but I swished too much. Shame - My father told me not to embarrass my ancestors. Yes, my dead ancestors.

Those Who Help Themselves - Our Lord Father communicates to us via e-mail forwards. Lucky - I was lucky to survive my tumultous teen years. Bill wasn't.

Exhale

It's hard to show your enduring love with celery sticks. Picture this: the warm glow of candles, soft mood music, you gazing deeply in your lover's eyes, whispering sweet nothings over a plate of celery and low-calorie ranch dressing.

See? It doesn't work.

Romance is all about excess: scrumptious food, lavish gifts, spending money you took from his wallet while he was asleep. The whole point is to lull the object of your affection/unwitting victim into complacency. And once your lives are impossibly entangled, through cohabitation, vows of commitment or blackmail, you reveal your true self.

The good news is that this ritual only lasts about six months. The bad news is that in six months, you could find yourself twenty pounds heavier, no longer the size fourteen (the size zero of drag queens) you once were. It creeps up on you, this weight, like a cold sore or megalomania.

I think you can pick out the truly committed relationships. They have a glow about them that comes from mutual trust, mutual support and mutual funds with a double-digit annual growth. They are the people who have eschewed the superficial; they don't live on a strict diet of celery and tomato soup to keep their abs rock hard.

The elastic waistband is an ally, a defiant fashion statement. These people are the shining beacons of the highest potential of humans. If you see them walking down the street--stop them--see if you can learn something from them, like the directions to a decent all-you-can-eat buffet in the Chicago area. Really, I would like to know. Please send this to me via e-mail.

My waist is slipping from me. My boyfriend is complicit in this. We eat lavishly, then neglect to go to the gym. This past Thanksgiving is just the gravy on the mashed potatoes. I ate all that. And the morning after, I stole into the refrigerator and ate some more.

But you can't really lie about your waistline. The signs give you away: your inseam, that fabric that should lie flat on top of your zipper, puckers open like a botched lipo scar. Your belly fat floats on top of your waistband like an inner tube in a swimming pool.

It's like for years and years and years of being 30, I found myself shopping for 32-inch jeans. I could no longer lie to myself or anybody else. That's not true. I may be a 33, 34, but I refuse to even consider that. No no no no no no way.

I wish this was like lying about my age, which I can perpetuate as long as photoshop and myspace exists. I'm quite popular on myspace. I just got an "add" this morning, which now makes my grand total of friends to four. It would've been five, but my mom refused to add me as friend. I'm so popular that as soon as I signed up, some dude named Tom wanted desperately to be my friend.


Saturday night, a rare stint at the bars. It's crowded. Gay men and women are slowly decompressing from their deep dive into the homestead, imbibing alcohol to fend off the bends.

I am standing among the perfect, the pretty. I am holding in my stomach, holding in my breath.

I had to do this, to squeeze into my jeans. You know the dance: a quick intake of air, then jumping about on hot coals. The inch from the button to the buttonhole, a marathon route; my navel caught between scylla and charybdis.

Even then, my stomach bulges out like foam threatening to spill over a piping hot latte. I hold it in to keep it flat, drawing only short breaths. When I talk, it's amazing I don't sound like Spongebob. Or Meg Tilly.

I've been here forty-five minutes and already I want to go home. I can't wait to get out of these clothes, these jeans.

And to exhale.

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Posts about the food in my life:

Starvation - The long way home is paved with very little food. Fake Plastic Food - The airplane food finally arrives. Discharged! - An obstruction in my bowels lands me in the hospital. Rock Bottom - An Oreo Story. When you've fished food out of the trash, then you know you've hit rock bottom.

Girl, Interrupted - The story of a lost girl and the media uproar. Love On An Empty Stomach - Food lulls you into falling in love. Comfort Food - $1.50 for a bowl of rice is insane. Bagel Sandwich - I could've been a millionaire but for a bagel sandwich.

I am holding my breath until you join the mailing list!

Technorati Tags: Humor Gay Queer

Rock Bottom

I'll know that I've hit rock bottom if I pull those cookies out of the trash can. At least, that's what I tell myself. Right now, my only form of self-control over snack food is to throw the uneaten portion into the trash. In my mind, the second something’s in the trash can, it's garbage, even though in reality, the cookies themselves are still clean, protected by the mylar bag, untouched by whatever else is around it.

Sometimes, I would throw out unopened packages of candy or snacks that were given as gifts to prevent myself from gorging on them. I try not to think of the wastefulness of it all, thinking only of the benefits to my health, my body and my lungs as I try to squeeze into my suffocatingly tight wardrobe.

I am at work. It is 3pm. I am starving.

I go to the lunchroom and stare at the vending machine for what seemed like an hour. I become one of those people who stand in front of this machine, hypnotized, like it's an oracle telling my future, one where I have to have a great personality instead of being shallow and goodlooking. The thought of having any sort of intelligence or wit in my skull depressed me, but I fear that I am already a lost cause.

As I feed the machine my dollar bill, the irony is not lost on me. I tentatively pressed the "E" button. My index finger hovered at the number "3" for what seemed like another hour before stabbing it, taking the plunge. The vending machine whirs to life, dropping a sinful package of Oreo cookies. My change--a lone, sad nickel--falls into the slot with barely a jangle.

There are four cookies in the package. I take it back to my desk. I rip open the package, quickly savoring thick sweetness of the first cookie.

I take my time with the second one, taking only little bites, hoping that this would fool my stomach into thinking it was having more than it is. However, I knew this wouldn't work, just like I knew that it wouldn't work when my high school boyfriend begged to let him in 'just an inch.'

As I licked the crumbs off my fingers, I eyed the two other cookies, commanding myself to throw it in the trash. The guy in the next cubicle looked at me quizzically. I realized that I said that out loud.

I throw the cookies in the trash.

The cookies sat in the garbage staring back at me, lying there dejectedly, like unwanted newborn babies in a dumpster. I so want to rescue it, cradle it in my arms and then cram all of it in my mouth. I kick the trash can further under my desk so I can't see it.

Babies. Baby Ruth. Sugar Babies. God, this makes me feel disgusting, like a choco-pedophile. I try to think about other things, things that won't make me take that little bag of cookies out of the trash.

Babies make me think of umbilical cords. Some people say it's thick and cutting through it is like cutting through a finger. Or a Slim Jim. I wonder if it tastes like one too? Sorry, hunger is making me a little light-headed.

The cookies are calling me, like my ex-boyfriend who I've given crabs: I'm here, I'm here, I'm here...

I'm reaching in.

Please look away.

Please look away...


Technorati Tags: Humor Gay Queer

Fake Plastic Food

(continued from Starvation)

I had been on the plane for four hours and sixteen minutes before the food cart finally came.

My tray table has been folded down even before I saw the food cart come out of the galley. You can hear the clacking of the trays coming down, fast and hard. It was like dominoes or the wave in a football field; you hear one person fold down their tray and everybody else starts folding down theirs. Sound travels faster than the aroma of beef, which came several minutes later.

I almost didn't care what the food was going to be. It was going to be fake and processed even in its afterlife, hermetically sealed in tiny white plastic coffins with a see-through lid, like Snow White. Normally, it would be chicken or beef unless you're vegetarian, then they give you a cardboard tray. I hear it's very rich in fiber.

Once, a few years ago, after I bought my tickets online, the screen asked me if I had special dietary restrictions. Most of the time, I can only eat maybe a small portion of what's on my tray. I can't eat the dessert or the side dish because usually it would have some kind of dairy. Sometimes, there is also cheese in the salad or cream in the dressing. I figured, this is great! I would get a tray where I can eat everything! I typed "No Dairy" in the blank space.

On that trip, the flight attendant came by and confirmed that I was the one who ordered the special tray. I was excited; I was the first one to be served. She came back with a tray with a shiny metal cover.

The flight attendant pulled up cover to reveal a succulent, head of lettuce. Ok, I am exaggerating. It wasn't a head of lettuce, but there was definitely a lot of lettuce there, sprinkled with lots of carrots. I hate carrots.

Back to my current flight, the Korean Airlines flight attendant was slowly pushing the cart forward. As she served you your tray, she bowed down low, eyes smiling, politely honoring you with her wares. My mouth watered with anticipation.

When she came to me, there was a look of dismay in her eyes.

"Please, sir," she whispered agitatedly, "so, so sorry, but we are out of beef. Will our honored guest accept Bibimbop instead?"

Clearly, this was just politeness. If I had declined, she has no recourse but to perform seppuku, the ancient ritual of self-immolation. Since there are no metal cutlery onboard, she would have to do it with the plastic butter knife. That would be messy. Plus, I didn't want her to bleed all over my suede shoes so I accepted.

Bibimbop. I am not sure whether I should expect some kind of meat, fish or the severed heads of Hanson.

I was relieved to see it was a small bowl of rice topped with minced chicken, vegetables and sliced eggs. For authenticity, it came some seaweed broth and a small sachet of sesame seed oil to drizzle on top. There was also a tube of what looked like a small, travel-sized toothpaste on the tray. How convenient, I thought. It could be handy if the dish is bad breath-inducing or something.

It was surprisingly good. I hummed mmmBibimbop under my breath as I ate it.

Later, in the lavatory (lavatory, it was one of those words that begged to be pronounced in a fake British accent, you know like, bloke or Bono), I found out that the tube was a paste of hot chili pepper. When I squeezed the paste out of the tube, I thought it was weird that it was the color of ketchup. The flakes were a little strange too. Luckily, I smelled and licked it with the tip of my tongue before using it. Apparently, the Koreans liked their food spicy.

I don't know what the dessert was. It was wrapped in a forbidding package that I was afraid to open. The picture on it showed something that could've been a moist, dark green brownie. Right next to the picture of the soylent brownie was a cute little manga-style cartoon boy with dashes for eyes, happily exclaiming something in Korean. There were only a few English words on it--"100% Natural," "Healthy" and three words that should never be on any dessert package ever: "Good For You!!!"

You could put twenty exclamation points after these words but it won't sway my opinion. If you really want to sell a dessert, you should put the words "Stroke-inducing!" in a bubbly yellow font on it. I'd buy it in a flash.

One exclamation point will do.



Fake Plastic Food at South Korea's Incheon International Airport:



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This is part of a series of posts about my vacation in February of '06 in the Philippines. Read the rest here:

Part 1: The Long Way Home Part 2: Starvation Part 3: Fake Plastic Food Part 4: My Old Room Part 5: Autopilot Part 6: Jetlag

Part 7: A Conversation with My Father Part 8: Archeology Part 9: A Conversation with My Mother Part 10: Redeye Part 11: I Carry Your Heart Epilogue: Fun with Fake Poop

Starvation

The hunger is starting to gnaw inside of me.

I am writing this on the plane. It has been three hours into the first leg of my trip to the Philippines. There is still another thirteen hours before the plane lands in Seoul, Korea for the second leg of the trip, and then another four hours.

So far, they have given me a small packet of Planters Honey Roasted Peanuts along with a paper napkin and a small glass of Diet Coke. The Diet Coke is gone; I have yet to touch the peanuts. I am hoarding them, like a squirrel, for the coming famine. I am not sure when the food cart will be rolled out and even then, I would be one of the last ones to be served as I am in the front half of the plane.

We boarded the plane at 11 a.m. There are maybe a hundred people on this flight. They all looked hungry, rabid, ready to pounce on any morsel of food.

If they were smart like me, they ate a huge lunch an hour before. Mine was a quarter pounder, a six-piece, fries and a Diet Coke.

I debated whether I should get a regular Coke because the calories could be stored as body fat and can nourish my body and keep me warm during the long flight. But I decided against it; I have recently converted to diet drinks in an effort to stave off the inevitable paunchiness that signals the approach of the gay middle age of 35. I did not want a relapse. It was hard to get over the slightly metallic aftertaste of diet soda, but I think I am over the worse. The cravings only come when I am depressed or after watching The View, then I crave the full, heavy, thick taste of high fructose corn syrup.

I had noticed that I've had to work out harder to keep my abs tight and hard. I was never one to diet, my fast-burning Asian metabolism had served me well through the years, a faithful companion, like a dog or genital herpes. It was only last year that I found out my metabolism was in fact powered by a tapeworm which I had acquired one summer in camp in my twelfth year. I begged the doctor not to kill it, but to no avail. He was merciless. I think he hates Asians, but I can't prove it.

Another hour has passed, I have now opened the packet of peanuts. I poured out the contents on top of the napkin they gave me. There were thirty-six whole peanuts, I counted them. I wanted to figure out how long I could make them last, what interval I should eat them before the food cart arrives. There were also another three halves and probably enough crumbs to form another half. I factored that in too. Every two minutes, perhaps, surely the cart would come by then?

The plan failed. As soon as I started eating the first peanut, the hunger overcame me, beating me senseless like Kevin Federline's rap song. In a moment, the peanuts were gone, crumbs and all. I was still hungry.

I looked at the paper napkin. Would I be able to eat it without any Diet Coke to wash it down? I cursed my weakness, my poor planning. Oh when will the food come?



Continued: Fake Plastic Food


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This is part of a series of posts about my vacation in February of '06 in the Philippines. Read the rest here:

Part 1: The Long Way Home Part 2: Starvation Part 3: Fake Plastic Food Part 4: My Old Room Part 5: Autopilot Part 6: Jetlag

Part 7: A Conversation with My Father Part 8: Archeology Part 9: A Conversation with My Mother Part 10: Redeye Part 11: I Carry Your Heart Epilogue: Fun with Fake Poop

Comfort Food

$1.50 for a bowl of rice is insane.

Brian and I went to a local pan-asian restaurant called pingpong in our neighborhood in Chicago which has some great food. They have this amazing super spicy calamari appetizer, which is lightly breaded calamari and fried with tons of garlic, tossed with jalapeno pepper slices. I ordered the dish as my entrée, but it didn’t come with rice.

There was an intense psychological battle between my cheapness and my rice addiction on whether to pay a buck-fifty for that small bowl of rice or not. It’s like having a drag queen choose between a sequined gown or a rhinestone tiara: a real moral challenge. I mean, in a regular restaurant they give you all the bread you want to eat! It's racism I tell you!

A 25 pound sack of rice costs about $15 at an Asian store and I can probably make more than 500 cups of cooked rice with it. They also have a 50 pound sack, twice the size, for only $5 more. I would have bought it but Brian refused to help me carry it to the car. I’ll have to remember this about him in case I have to bury a dead body.

I don’t know why I have to have rice when I have a meal. I’ll eat it for breakfast, lunch, dessert.

When I was younger, if I was ill or feeling poorly, my mother would often make lugaw (which the Chinese call congee), a sort of rice soup, much like other mothers make chicken broth for their sick kids. When you’re sick, lugaw is bland enough not to overwhelm you. My mother would top it with some pork fu, a condiment made from dried, shredded pork to add a bit of flavor.

Actually, I always thought pork fu looked like dried hairy boogers, which to a kid, made it more fun to eat. I imagined that some old Chinese man picked his nose all day to fill up the bag it came in. However, the first thing that came to my mind when I saw this photo is that it looks like a cow’s pubic hair. Yum.

Some Sunday mornings, I would head towards Chinatown with some friends for dim sum at a restaurant called Phoenix. Here, Asian women in white cotton cheongsam-style blouses and black pants push around dim sum carts, calling out the names of the little dishes they carry in Cantonese or Mandarin amidst the din of patrons chattering in various foreign languages. Dim sum is like Chinese tapas: little dishes in bamboo steamers like beef tripe, pork spareribs or braised chicken feet—Fear Factor for the uninitiated maybe, but a real treat for me.

The carts meander around the restaurant like leaves flowing down a stream, stopping by each table to let diners pick out their favorite dish. You could probably order what you want to eat from a menu but it is more fun this way. I mean, you can have sex with your boyfriend--but isn't it more fun to take his Visa card out shopping first? The orgasms are much more intense that way.

I got excited when the lady with the congee cart came by. Here, the congee came with diced chicken and bits of century egg. She didn’t speak any English but she saw what I wanted. She smiled as she ladled the steaming congee into a bowl in front of me and topped it with fresh green onions.

I looked into her face. Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun, little beads of sweat dotted her forehead from the steaming soup. The smile deepened the grooves on her wizened cheeks and the wrinkles around her eyes. In that smile, I saw a trace of my mother.

Then she was gone.

I ate my congee, my lugaw. The warmth in my belly comforted me.

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Recipe for Congee with Chicken and Century Egg
Why I Love Chicken Feet
More Dim Sum
I don't speak Engrish

Kid Fear Factor: so cute
Fear Factor? Crusty Booger Balls and other gross recipes
(includes the Kitty Litter Cake recipe Pua sent me)

#762 Yo Mama's nose so big, you can go bowling with her boogers (and other Yo Mama jokes)

Bagel Sandwich

When I say "no cheese," I mean NO CHEESE. But it never happens that way.

When in a restaurant, I have come to expect that I have to send my food back although somehow, it always seems to make me the one at fault; that if I didn't special order it, everybody wouldn't have to wait until I got my food right before we could go on our way.

I admit that my brand of dairy phobia is quite weird and has so many loopholes in it that my friends have given up trying to understand what it is that I will and won't eat. Maybe one of these days I will write a definitive list to get people off my back. It could become the rider to my contract whenever I am invited to grace a dinner party with my celebrity.

I hate going to dinner parties. I hate having to discuss with the host my food eccentricities. I often avoid it entirely. Instead, I would eat before going to a dinner party expecting that I cannot eat anything. At some point in the evening, I often have the urge to shout "Look! Is that Hugh Jackman?" so I can shovel the uneaten food into a baggie while everyone is distracted.

In people's eyes, I am Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally, the kind of high maintenance guy who thinks he's low maintenance; that I am making things difficult for people because I can. Sure, sometimes I may not offer my preferred seat on the bus to the infirm or elderly, but mostly I am as easy-going as your wallet and the trick you had last night.

Besides, I don't think asking for no cheese is that hard considering other people ask for things like peanuts, shellfish or cilantro to be withheld. I mean, talk about high maintenance! Sheesh! Who asks for no cilantro? Amish people?

Brian and I went to get bagel sandwiches at Einstein's. His was a bacon and cheddar breakfast bagel. Mine was a Santa Fe bagel, a sandwich with turkey sausage, salsa, pepper jack cheese and jalapeno cream cheese. I'm sure you can figure out which of these ingredients I don't want.

Now, when I order food, I never toss out "no milk, please" or "no sour cream" or "dry toast" nonchalantly and giggle afterwards. I look deeply into the person's eyes, and say the words slowly and solemnly, with proper gravity. I say it very much like the perpetually sun-burned Phil Keoghan on The Amazing Race:

"Paul and Brian. *suspenseful pause* You are the last team to arrive. *regretful pause* You have been eliminated."

Ten minutes later, we get our food and one look at my sandwich and I see that the bagel is slathered with some kind of orange colored cream cheese which smelled vile. I took the sandwich back to the guy and said, "I didn't want cheese." He frowned and said, "You didn't say cream cheese."

What if I said I didn't want meat? Would he say, "Duh, you didn't say 'turkey'."

Back at our table, I bitched while we waited another ten minutes for my new sandwich. Brian said, "You give people too much credit. Most people don't think of cream cheese as cheese."

"Really?" I said, "I thought the word 'cheese' sorta gave it away."

I ranted on. "I mean, people should pay attention more! What does it take to make a sandwich? Bread. Condiment. Condiment. Vegetable! Filling!! Bread!!! We're not inventing a cure for yeast infection!"

"Chill out," said Brian. "You'll get your sandwich soon."

"It took ten minutes to make that first sandwich. That's ten minutes of my life that I will never get back. I could have won the lottery in those ten minutes!"

"Oh," Brian smiled, "Somebody's gonna give you a winning lottery ticket?"

"No, but I could have walked out of here, found a lottery ticket that somebody dropped and won a million dollars!" I said, "But now, all I will have is a bagel sandwich that the guy probably added his 'special ingredient' to. I want my goddamn ten minutes back!"

I coulda been a contendah! I coulda had a meeellion dollars!

I cursed fate and I cursed my dairy phobia. I cursed my fucking cheeseless Santa Fe bagel sandwich, which tasted like so much cardboard in my mouth.